"My dear George, you wouldn't surely have me marry a woman without one?"
"I [think] all women would be better without them; and as for Priscilla Blake's, I tell you, sir, Xantippe was an angel to her. I insist on your giving up this idea at once."
"I certainly shan't give up Miss Beresford, if that is what you mean?"
"Then I'll disinherit you!" roars the squire. "I will, I swear it! I'll marry myself. I'll do something desperate!"
"No, you won't," says Brian, laughing again; and going over to the old man, he lays his hands upon his shoulders and pushes him gently back into his chair. "When you see her you will adore her, and she sent her love to you this morning, and this, too," laying a photograph of Monica before the Squire, who glances at it askance, as though fearful it may be some serpent waiting to sting him for the second time; but, as he looks, his face clears.
"She is not like her mother," he says, in a low tone.
"I never met such a remorseful old beggar," thinks Desmond, with wonder; but just at this moment a servant enters with a message to the squire; so the photograph is hastily withdrawn, and the conversation—or rather discussion—comes to an end.
"Two of the tenants are asking to see you, sir," says the butler, confidentially.
"What two?"
"Donovan, from the East, and Moloney, from the Bog Road, sir."